I’ve begun to observe a certain categorical and identifiable representation of masculinity in contemporary Australian cinema, one inherently constituted by genre on the one hand, and imaginings of landscape on the other: Which is to say, Australian cinema has always been engaged in interrogating or perpetuating the mythos of the self-realised ‘outback bloke’ — though it required a Canadian dramatist, Ted Kotcheff, to dismantle the archetype wholesale in Wake in Fright — but a recent influx of tiny Australian pastorals of epic interiors have reclaimed the archetype for renewed audience fascination, by subjecting this human avatar to the violence of the land he professes to emblematise.
There must be something iconic, unassailable and inexpressible — “primal”, growls Thomas (a.k.a. Chris Alcott), one of two central protagonists in Kasimir Burgess’s riveting and loss-haunted début feature, Fell — about a man’s attempts to carve a channel wide enough to accommodate him in the topography of the Australian landscape, because this is a narrative of provenance which we appear collective-bound to tell. Writer/director David Michôd has probably assumed the status as the proverbial poster boy for rehabilitating this once-shunned storytelling tradition in Australia, and certainly there’s something to be said about Michôd’s conviction that the conditions of a particular landscape will compel dramatic impetus in a story about men. In many ways, however, Michôd’s The Rover is schematic or obfuscating — low-stakes, emotionally — where Kasimir Burgess’s Fell is mute but stormy with meaning. Continue reading
Writer/director Kornél Mundruczó is an artist specialising in dualities, dissonance, contradictions. His new film, the Cannes Prize Un Certain Regard-winning White God (a.k.a. Fehér isten) — which I would contend constitutes something of a masterpiece, if one’s critical barometer is receptive to unclassifiable cinema which invests in a worldbuilding and an interior logic which never lapses or negates itself — is an exemplar, an instructive example best cited, of this directorial delight Mundruczó engenders in postmodern collision. As I watched White God in a darkened theatre, increasingly aware that I was being spellbound — enacted upon — by weird forces of wonderment and repulsion, transformative images electrified by human emotion, I quickly discerned that what I was encountering was so damn unlike anything else as to be self-incarnate, envisioned in a cultural vacuum, autochthonous. This is of course ridiculous: I don’t doubt for a second that, if pressed, Mundruczó would be seized or compelled to articulate and rationalise his authorial agenda by referencing a navigable constellation of cinematic (and pop.-cultural) influences. What I mean is not that White God is anything akin to a prelinguistic or originary artefact, because such an assertion would smack of intellectual posturing and a tendency to transcendentalise a byproduct of existing cinematic traditions, but that White God feels like something entirely disenthralled with comparison.
It is the Mundruczó affect: quieten the whispering mind to the extent that it is almost as if nothing else intrudes on the canvas but the images composed and strobing there; there is a bigness of vision, an ambition of scope and an aesthetic experience which is immersive and unpolluted by the legacies of predecessors. If I had to define it, I’d maintain that White God is like Wake in Fright for children. Continue reading
Sometime last year I listened to a podcast released for This American Life, and amongst the multilimbed miscellany which a weekly episode comprises of, a story addressing the issue of bureaucratic discrimination against same-sex couples galvanised my interest. It was — for want of a more discerning term, one less couched in journalistic jargon — the angle which engaged me: I understand and recognise and regret that, even today, LGBTQ couples (in addition to those whom subscribe to alternative sexualities or gender roles), be they married or involved in a de facto relationship, experience systemic prejudice in virulent and substantive ways, and this both saddens and angers me; but I don’t believe I heretofore ever appreciated the marginalisation and antagonism inflicted on gay couples in the specific context of the contemporary real estate market. I found the subject fascinating, in part, because of that very specificity: there’s a transdisciplinary appraisal at work, when a journalist interrogates the way in which an industry we take for granted in our communities devalues individuals on the basis of how they choose to identify. I’d been previously interested, for reasons abstract to myself, in the ways that the contemporary real estate market has (and continues to) ostracise and victimise people of colour — if I were honest, I’d concede that it likely has something to do with my admiration for the politicised insights about this subject unearthed in writer/showrunner David Simon’s Treme, and consequently, the Lisa Belkin-authored work of essayistic reportage on the New York public housing scandal of 1988, Show Me A Hero, which Simon next intends to adapt to screen — but the plight and the silent trivilialisation of the gay experience in the contemporary context of affordable housing is an issue I’d managed to elide from my thoughts. Continue reading
There are things wrong — both narratively and structurally — with twenty-five-year-old Québécois enfant terrible and writer/director, Xavier Dolan’s Cannes Jury Prize-winning melodrama, Mommy, and it isn’t insubstantial or injudicious or petty to catalogue them, but it would be myopic.
As I experienced the full kinetic, high-octane assault of Dolan’s revelrous, near impressionistically-orchestrated vision, I came to discern that no amount of measured and exacting critical evaluation would satisfactorily accommodate the sheer ambition, dramatic impact, emotional and psychological generosity, gorgeousness and raw feeling that this film engenders in its viewers. At the film’s conclusion, the audience I saw it with erupted into applause.
Mommy is therefore almost impossible to judge or reduce or synopsise to the sum of its parts, if only because it succeeds organically and intuitively as a singular vision of aesthetic energy and combustion — to encapsulate or abbreviate its affect, is to assume an injustice against it. This is a work which, albeit embracing of clumsy melodramatic convention and a storytelling high-concept which initially feels telescoped and contrived, reaffirms that maxim of artistic discovery: the shock of the new. Continue reading